As if we weren’t already hurtling towards war
Sense of things having been this way before
Recording déjà vu on Fortean Forums
Discovering others too are suffering strange dreams
Parsing apocryphal books for prophetic anecdote, however scant.
Gladelord Pan
Flexed span mansome
Face handsome
Chest sunlight-flecked, lying in the glade
At sun’s coming nesting birds alight him
Playing raucous rebel reels, jingoistic jigs
Upon a Y-ed, two-laned pipe hewn from white hart bone
Amidst flaxen hair horns twisting
Like Fibonacci spirals.
Missiles report from Porton Down
Toxic sedge is falling now
Clagging slag mounding, clinging dangerously
Fission-bellied wyverns boring clouds
Wire-veined, foreign port bound.
Someone tried bumping off Trump
No sooner Judges’ gavel pronounced him rapist
Lunatic aping Gavrilo Princip, piece in fist
Undertakes the hit but shits the bed
If ever we needed proof of generational degradation
Oswald 3 shots 3 hits
2024 rifle’s bullet barely skims mark’s ear
How could you miss him:
Peel-skinned, flaxen, golden sheep reposed on head in comedic wave
Like Greyfriar’s Bobby embracing wet slated owner’s grave.
Unwashed hordes, all devils’ sick of sin, rapping to get in
Rapine crowd wisdom, fear mind many scattered and Borglike
Abhorring justice, foglike movement of mindlessness
Orblike egregores abort minds heretofore cavorted in
Forth unto great sin
Skin the lamb and hold him peeled, peon to skies beyond
Peeing on church steps, drunkards encouraging
Yet greater acts of depravity and vandalism.
Civil war that’s what they’ve all been waiting for
Johnny got his gun then Johnny got fucked up
Last I saw he wasn’t able to see anymore
Shot across the bough
Wish it hit the mouth.
What I said I done
Shot Donald Trump
Disgruntled with a gun
Took his shot, look what he’s done
Look what he’s wrought
Guess he wasn’t fronting
Queuing for booze we accused him pub talking
Admit no talk of stopping him or informing authorities
No sense of intercession’s urgent need
This was a session, we thought he was messing
If every man who said I’ll shoot the president shot the president
Secret service, tired of dying, wouldn’t let them go outside.
He lay in hiding, biding his time
Training in his garden, in hopes of civil war
Remaining ready for opportunity’s arousal
Online carousing with fringe lunatics.
Alchemisland 
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